


Just before Dawn

by willshakeaspear



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-08-07
Packaged: 2018-03-10 10:15:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3286598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willshakeaspear/pseuds/willshakeaspear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire thinks he is stumbling into Jehan's apartment, but is (not so) sadly mistaken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Dawn-Grantaire

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a one-shot, but due to comments giving me ideas for continuing it, more will be coming!

It was one of those summer nights that aren’t hot per se, but where the humidity seeps inside your bones and makes you want to crawl out of your skin. One of those nights where you can’t get comfortable enough to fall asleep, or even feel tired. A night that was not so much night, but day that was just dimmed and a little hazy. A night that couldn’t really be called night at all anymore, because it was coming up around 4 in the morning, and the sky was getting a tad lighter at the horizon.

And Grantaire was drunk. 

This was nothing new. Far from it. With the current standings, Feuilly calculated that it was about a thrice-weekly occurrence.

Grantaire blew the smoke from his cigarette towards the sky as he staggered leisurely down the winding streets, watching it spiral toward the sky and mask the already fading stars. He felt the urge to paint something— anything. The bags under his eyes begged for sleep, but he felt far too alive for that. 

For the first time that night, Grantaire stopped and looked about him for an actual purpose. When he’d started out, he’d been at the Musain with Bahorel, but that had been many many hours ago and he’d wandered through many many bars and neighborhoods to get where he was now. He was pleasantly surprised to find that he actually knew where he was, recognizing the apartments. If he wasn’t mistaken, the apartment in front of him and up five flights would contain a person very dear to his heart— Jehan Prouvaire. 

Jehan and Grantaire had met while taking the same Art History course, and it had been the start of a beautiful friendship. There were many drinks had, much art made, and many poems written and recited. Jehan was a slip of a person, tiny and often clothed in bright florals and sporting some elaborate braid in their hair. Looks were deceiving however, because Jehan could knock ‘em back like nobody’s business and knock even more people to the floor. 

They would likely be awake, reading some book on Percy Shelley or Lord Byron or what-have-you. Grantaire could climb up the fire escape, and round out the night with some quality creative time. It would be perfect. 

The fire escape proved a little more difficult than planned. The drinks had loosened up his mind and apparently his muscles, as his fingers kept slipping as he tried to pull himself up onto the first level. His legs and feet kicked uselessly in the air as he scrabbled for a better hold. He made it up eventually, clambering up onto the ledge and stumbling up the remaining four flights.

The window was open. Grantaire didn’t give it a second thought as he slipped through, catching his foot on the carpet and toppling rather unceremoniously into the unlit apartment. 

He did, however, give it a second (and a third and a fourth) thought when the light flicked on and someone who was very definitely NOT Jehan was sitting in a bed that was most certainly NOT Jehan’s. 

This person was, however, quite unfairly attractive. It was disarming, really. His cheekbones had to be illegal, face framed with blonde hair curling down to his shoulders. And his eyes had Grantaire pinned to his spot on the floor. He couldn’t even look down further to see the rest of this gorgeous creation, because his eyes were locked on to his. 

“Excuse me, what are you doing here?” 

And Grantaire wants to die, because this voice might even be better than those looks. He might look the gods carved him out of their own marble columns, but he sounded like the muses breathed into a summer wind and gave it life. It wasn’t hard or cold or untouchable, but warm and resonant. 

“I am sosososososorry,” the words rush out of Grantaire’s mouth as he trips over himself to get up, suddenly self-conscious about the fact that he’s been out since god-knows-when and did he put a clean shirt on yesterday, and does he smell too much like alcohol and does this dream of a man mind? “I thought this was my friend Jehan’s apartment, this is so embarrassing, my god—“  
“Jehan Prouvaire?” The man asked, rising out of his bed and fuck he was way taller than Grantaire.

“Um, yeah, actually, do you know them?” If he did A) what a small world and B) he needed to know who this guy was like he needed to breathe. 

“Yeah, they're in my activist group. And they live upstairs.” 

Wrong floor. Grantaire cursed and blessed his counting skills simultaneously. On the one hand, this was very awkward. On the other, he met someone who would fuel his art probably until the end of time. 

“Oh. Cool. Well, I’m am so sorry man, my bad, lemme just nip back out your window and then you can forget I was ever here!” Grantaire made a mock salute and moved to climb back out the window. He froze when he heard— 

“Wait, what’s your name?”

“Oh,” he breathed, turned back around, straightened up, and offered his hand to the gorgeous stranger. “I’m Grantaire. They call me R.” 

The stranger took the proffered hand—holy shit they were touching this man was warm flesh and blood and bone—“Nice to meet you, R. I’m Enjolras.” 

They stood for a moment, hands still clasped, eyes locked, until Grantaire remembered himself and broke the contact with a small jolt. Enjolras. His name was Enjolras. And he was beautiful and probably just as amazing as he looked and sounded. He would probably hate Grantaire if he knew him, lots of people did, but in this moment at 4 am in the summer not-quite-night, he was looking at him with a small smile on his face that could sear the eyes out of Grantaire's skull. Grantaire looked at the ground, rubbed his neck, gave a little wave, and moved back towards the window. Once again, Enjolras stopped him.  
“You know, you can use the door.”


	2. First Dawn- Enjolras

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first chapter, from Enjolras' end of things.

Enjolras didn’t like the heat. He wasn’t built for it, despite how many times Courfeyrac told him how amazing he looked in tank tops. It made him uncomfortable, and most of all, unable to sleep. Enjolras had spent many years with Combeferre being nocturnal, working late into the night, but he’d recently rediscovered the joys and productivity that comes from a full night of sleep. However, with the temperature hovering around 38 degrees, it was looking less and less likely he’d be getting one that night.

Being awake when the lights were off made Enjolras hyper-aware of sounds, the absence of full sight overcompensating by turning whispers into roars. The faint whir of the fan made an overarching din, punctuated by the occasional sound drifting in from the open window and Enjolras’ own frustrated sighs and tossing about. He’d been unsuccessfully trying to fall asleep for what the red neon numbers of his alarm clock told him was almost two hours. His sheets were twisted uncomfortably about his body, forming a vice that only served to add to the effect of the suffocating humidity. His blanket had been kicked off long ago. 

He contemplated going upstairs and seeing if Jehan wanted to wait out this bout of insomnia together. Misery loved company, after all. He knew they were awake, he had heard the muffled strains of the Pride & Prejudice score coming from their room not too long ago. Jehan's music taste, Enjolras had decided soon after moving in below them, was much better than Courfeyrac’s. After living with Courfeyrac, Enjolras now knew the entire Lady Gaga discography. The music started back up again— a track Enjolras knew to be Dawn. Apt, considering dawn was not too far away. In about an hour Enjolras would be able to watch outside his window as the bricks of the next apartment building over were gradually illuminated by the rising sun. 

And still, Enjolras couldn’t bring himself to admit defeat and turn on his light. 

That is, until someone crash landed in his room through the open window. 

Instantly, Enjolras bolted up and switched on the lamp. The thought to use the lamp as a weapon briefly flashed across his mind, but instead his mind shorted out and went with saying “Excuse me, what are you doing here?”

He was not normally that polite to people who could potentially rob him and leave him for dead, but somehow he didn’t think this man would do either of those things. For one thing, he looked terrified. His eyes shone out from between a mess of tangle, curly black hair and bags so purple they could be bruises. For another, Enjolras felt like he could probably beat him in a fight. He was shorter than Enjolras, which gave him leverage despite the other man’s stockier build. He was clearly unsteady on his feet, judging by the way he’d tumbled in, perhaps explained by the fact that he smelled of alcohol. 

“I am sosososososorry,” the stranger slurred, scrambling to get up and back over by the window. “I thought this was my friend Jehan’s apartment, this is so embarrassing, my god—“

“Jehan Prouvaire?” Enjolras asked, stopping the nervous rambling and rising from his bed after surreptitiously disentangling himself from his sheets. The man blinked. 

“Um, yeah, actually, do you know them?”

“Yeah, they’re in my activist group. And they live upstairs.” Enjolras explained. What a coincidence, he thought, then Well not actually, it makes perfect sense that he knows Jehan, since they live one floor up and it’s an easy mistake to make from outside.

At least he wouldn’t have to fight this guy, who now that Enjolras looked closely, was actually kind of good-looking. Sure he, was a mess. A drunk mess. But Enjolras had seen worse, and even been worse. This man made drunk mess into an aesthetic. Something carefully crafted rather than a side effect of some poor decisions. He belonged in a dimly lit bar, hazy with smoke, swirling a drink. 

“Oh. Cool. Well, I’m am so sorry man, my bad, lemme just nip back out your window and then you can forget I was ever here!” He gave a salute mockingly, and started to leave, which interrupted Enjolras’ examination of the tattoos that wound their way up his arms. He thought he could pick out a portion of text that looked like it was written in Jehan’s handwriting, and had been trying to read what it said. 

Without thinking, Enjolras burst out “Wait! What’s your name?” 

The man froze, and for a second, Enjolras thought he would leave the way he came without telling him. For some reason, that made him upset despite the fact that he could just ask Jehan his name the next day. He wanted to hear him say it. 

“Oh,” the man breathed, and wavered slightly as he turned back around, straightened up, and held out a hand for Enjolras. “I’m Grantaire. They call me R.” 

R. For a single letter, it dripped significance when said in his slightly gravelly, drawling voice. Enjolras suddenly liked that letter a whole lot more. Enjolras took his hand.

“Nice to meet you, R. I’m Enjolras.” 

Neither of them let go. For what was seconds but felt like much longer, their gazes stayed locked and their hands stayed clasped. Enjolras had never seen such dark eyes shine so bright. It was Grantaire who broke it, coughing a little and looking down to his shoes. He rubbed his neck, gave a small wave, and resumed his exit. 

“You know, you can use the door.” Enjolras said, stopping him once again. There were lights in the stairwell, and a railing. It was probably easier for a sober person to navigate, let alone a drunk one at 4 in the morning. Grantaire started at him for a minute, then laughed. 

“Oh. Yeah. Um, thanks.” 

Enjolras watched Grantaire leave the entire time. He wasn’t sure what he was feeling. Fascination? Attraction? He didn’t know. One thing he knew for sure, however, was that he would definitely not be getting back to sleep now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've decided on nine chapters for this fic! It will be moments before dawn from both Grantaire's and Enjolras' point of views, with two daytime interludes and one nighttime. Hooray for structure! I hope you all like it!


	3. Morning Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short interlude of Jehan and Grantaire, the morning after the first two chapters took place.

Bright sunlight streamed in through the window, illuminating the scene that Grantaire was currently sketching:

The sun throwing Jehan, clad in silk robe patterned with roses and dreads piled atop their head in a thick bun, into a silhouette. If Lord Byron's lady had walked in beauty like the night, Jehan walked in beauty like the day. For all they loved tragic Romanticism, they were so happy they were radiant. Jehan held a steaming mug of coffee in one hand, and the other was occupied by a book. Their robe was slipping off one shoulder, revealing a tattoo that connected their freckles into a constellation. Grantaire loved Jehan's freckles- they covered their entire body from head to toe. Grantaire had done the tattoo one night during one of their drunken creative sprees. In turn, Jehan had tattooed the words to "Invitation" by Shel Silverstein on the outside of Grantaire's forearm.

"Hm. Shel Silverstein." Grantaire had said. "I didn't know you liked Shel Silverstein."

"Everyone likes Shel Silverstein." They'd replied.

Grantaire loved it. Stick and poke had never looked so neat.

"So you met Enjolras last night," Jehan said, looking up from their book. "What do you think?"

Frankly, Grantaire thought he was in love. But what he said was "Uh, he was tall?"

Jehan rolled their eyes. "He's tall? Oh come off it Grantaire, don't tell me you're not already planning the first 100 paintings you'll do of him later. If there was a dictionary definition for "Grantaire's Type", it'd be Enjolras. He looks like he sprung straight out of the chisel of a Roman sculptor. He is classically beautiful in the most "classic" sense of the word."

They were right, of course. Enjolras was straight out of antiquity, looking like a statue of Achilles, or a god. Apollo. Yes, he was Apollo. And he was meant to worshipped, and have songs sung about him, but who would want to be worshipped by Grantaire? 

Jehan looked down at his cup of coffee. "There's a meeting tonight. You could come."

 _Not again._ Jehan had been trying to get Grantaire to come to their activist group meetings since they first met. They'd tried multiple things to tempt him into going, including taking him to the Musain and getting him to like it before informing him that this was the venue for the meetings. They'd also introduced him to half the members, and gotten Grantaire to become their friend. But Grantaire was stubborn, like an ox, and had not given in.

"Jehan, for the last time, you know I don't do that smart people stuff." Grantaire groaned, turning back to his sketch. Jehan yanked his paper away and stared him down. 

" _Do not_ give me that. You do smart people stuff all the time, Grantaire, because you _are_ smart. I'm not letting you get away with dismissing your intelligence just because you're an art major and have an inferiority complex. Remember that conversation we had about Romanticism versus Transcendentalism? That remains one of the best conversations I've had in my life." 

Grantaire had to physically tear himself away from Jehan's gaze. Jehan's big brown eyes were like a puppy's- well they looked more like a cow's big brown eyes, because of the long lashes, but comparing someone to a cow was generally not as nice as comparing someone to a puppy. 

"People don't give enough credit to cows..." Grantaire mumbled, staring at a loose string on the hem of shirt. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jehan settle back in the sun with their book. 

"I'll take that as a "maybe". Really, I think we could greatly benefit from a cynic like yourself. But you don't even have to participate, I'll be appeased if you just come to ogle Enjolras. Ooh, listen to this: 'It is soft to observe the star which shines, Spangle gold sewn onto the dais in the firmament, the star that a white Halo surrounds, and which in the clear sky moving slowly.'" 

"Nice," Grantaire said. "What is it?" 

"Imitation of Byron by Théophile Gautier. It's the first of his sonnets." 

"Hm. That Byron." Grantaire said, lighting a cigarette and taking a drag. "What a stud." 

"You're telling me," Jehan agreed, lazily holding out their hand for Grantaire's cigarette. He obliged, and Jehan took a drag and handed it back. 

"You know, with all the smoking and drinking and your rioting, we're probably going to end up dying around the same age he did." Grantaire said. Some people wouldn't have caught the joke in his voice, but Jehan knew him well enough to let out a small laugh. 

"Yes, well, Lana Del Ray might still have someone to love her when she's no longer young and beautiful, but I won't. So I wouldn't have it any other way, my dear friend. Want toast?" 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Jehan so much. In case you were wondering, this beautiful human http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JdGYPnXK54E/U7xLFi9V9mI/AAAAAAAAMsU/4gAMeR3tMAI/s640/140702_Nikia_MKP-17.jpg (Nikia Phoenix) is basically Jehan, only Jehan is shorter and has long dreads. 
> 
> Yes they are still French, if the Shel Silverstein threw you for a loop there. I actually don't know if he's popular in France, since I'm American, but I thought the words of the poem really fit with Grantaire and Jehan's prerogative. If you don't know it, look it up, it's a wonderful poem. I also don't know if transcendentalism was really a big thing in France but oh well. My translation of Imitation de Byron also might be wrong. 
> 
> I apologize for being shitty.


	4. Second Dawn- Enjolras

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire becomes a fixture at Les Amis de L'ABC meetings.

Friday night meetings were, arguably, a bad idea. The summer months had passed by in the same haze of humidity, sunshine, and happiness that it always had. Now autumn had arrived, and it had arrived with a vengeance. The air was already suitably nose-nipping in the first week of October. Leaves were changing in the Luxembourg Gardens. Enjolras and Les Amis de L'ABC, the activist group he was the de facto leader of, were back in class. This meant that their perfect balance of work and play was replaced by a very delicate balance between work, schoolwork, and play. It also meant that by time Friday rolled around, most of them were very tired from their long weeks, and not often able to focus. 

Most of time, it wasn't much of a problem and meetings didn't go very bad. This meeting, however, was going very badly. They'd been at it for hours, trying to plan their next rally, but practically nothing was actually being done. 

Combeferre was diligently editing Enjolras' speech at the table next to him, but Enjolras could see that even he was fading. His classes were slipping down his nose, and he hadn't even moved once to correct it. The red pen he was using (in true teacher style) was lazily drawing circles in the margins. Everyone else went downhill from there. Courfeyrac was making a valiant effort to concentrate, but Jehan was writing on his arm and he was suppressing giggles at the feel of the felt-tip pen. Joly and Bousset had clearly given up anything productive, as Musichetta had come over and was lounging over their laps. Bousset was braiding Musichetta's hair. Momentarily, Enjolras wondered how Bousset got so good at hair when he had none himself. Bahorel was looking at a textbook, flyers he was making abandoned on the table next to him. Feuilly was sleeping- but Enjolras really couldn't blame him, he worked so many jobs. Marius had fallen asleep on Cosette's shoulder awhile ago, but it was so adorable that no one had the heart to wake him. Eponine had quietly left, Enjolras had just now noticed. Even Enjolras' eyelids had that scratchy feeling behind them, signaling that maybe it was time to call it quits. 

He was about to turn to Combeferre and inform him of this, when a dark-haired man walked into the Musain. 

Enjolras recognized him instantly from all those weeks ago, but his thoughts were confirmed when Jehan happily exclaimed "R!" Feuilly woke with a start, saw Grantaire, and smiled at him sleepily. Joly, Bousset, and Musichetta gave a small cheer. Bahorel looked up from his textbook to say hello. It seemed that Grantaire was friends with almost everyone in their group. Something like annoyance formed in his chest- how come he didn't see him more often? The annoyance, at that thought, became bigger- he didn't even know this guy. Why would he want to see him more often? Something about him made Enjolras feel off. He wasn't sure he liked it. 

"Uh, Musichetta, have you finally decided to make the Musain 24 hours?" Grantaire asked, grinning. "Because it's either way past closing or way before opening. Take your pick." 

"I couldn't close when I have these dorks working so hard," Musichetta responded fondly, running a hand through Joly's hair. "That would be cruel." 

"What time is it?" Feuilly asked, scrubbing a hand across his eyes. 

"Around four," Grantaire said. 

"What are you still doing up?" 

"What does it look like?" Grantaire gestured to himself, and Enjolras took in his paint-splattered clothes underneath his open jacket. He even had a smudge of paint across his cheek and into his curls, as if he'd wiped his face without realizing that he had gotten paint on his hand. The colors seemed to have no relation to each other, a dab of dark blue across his knee, shades of grey and white splattered across his chest. The stripe on his face was a forest green. 

Enjolras wondered what he was painting. 

"I'm sorry," Combeferre said, setting down his pen, adjusting his glasses, and going over to offer a hand to Grantaire. "I don't think we've ever met. I'm Combeferre." 

"Grantaire," Grantaire said, taking the hand and shaking it. "People call me R." He glanced around, eyes momentarily stopping on Courfeyrac, Cosette and Marius in turn. "And that applies to anyone else here that I haven't met. Grantaire, called R. Hello." 

Cosette gave a small wave and said her name quietly, the pointed to the still-sleeping Marius and introduced him as well. 

"Oh, you know Eponine," Grantaire said. Cosette nodded happily, a smile blooming on her face at the mention of her best friend. 

"I think we've met actually R," Courfeyrac said, squinting a little. He always did that when he was trying to remember something. "Jehan's poetry slam a few weeks back?" 

"Oh yeah! Nice to see you again, man." And then his gaze fell on Enjolras. Suddenly Enjolras felt rooted to his spot on the floor. The same dark circles were under his eyes, he noted. They were possibly even darker. Had he not gotten any sleep since their first meeting in the summer? "And Enjolras, long time no see. Must we always meet in the wee hours?" 

Enjolras managed a smile and an incline of the head. 

"Grantaire! We're getting nothing done because we all agree," Jehan exclaimed. Enjolras frowned.

"I don't think that's quite why-" 

"How about you participate? Let Enjolras talk to you about this policy we're going to protest." 

Grantaire looked skeptical. He started backtracking to the door. "Actually I'm pretty tired, so I should really go." He was stopped in his tracks abruptly by bumping into Bahorel, who grabbed his shoulders and pushed him back. Right in front of Enjolras. Grantaire cast Bahorel a withering look, but Bahorel did not move. Sighing in resignation, Grantaire turned to Enjolras. 

"Okay. Hit me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It'd be so great of you to comment with critique if you have any! And if you wanted to know, I'm on tumblr at nataleydormer.tumblr.com! Thank you all so much for reading this. I mean it.


	5. Second Dawn- Grantaire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire's first Les Amis meeting is not as a strictly willing participant.

Grantaire would really like a way to blame Jehan for this, but really he didn't think he could blame anyone but fate. After all, Jehan couldn't have known that Grantaire would stay so late at the studios, working until a cold, bright dawn was just around the corner (although, to be fair, he did that a lot). Jehan couldn't have known Grantaire would take the long way home, meandering down the narrow side streets, in no hurry despite his nose and hands turning pink from the cold, his path taking him past the Musain. Jehan also couldn't have predicted Grantaire's curiousity to get the better of him when he saw the neon OPEN sign still illuminated, prompting him to go inside, following the faint sound of chatter into the back room, where the entire merry band of misfits that was Enjolras' (Grantaire had started thinking of it as his after their meeting all those months before) activism group was assembled.

It didn't seem like they were getting much done- many of them were asleep. Jehan was writing something in his delicate, curling script on someone that looked vaguely familiar's left arm. Joly, Bousset, and Musichetta were in their wonderful clump of polyamorous adorable-ness. The only ones who were doing anything were a tall black man with spectacles and a cardigan (but who had the edges of a tattoo poking out of his collar, Grantaire noticed) and Enjolras.

Enjolras who was just as beautiful now that Grantaire was sober, if not more. Enjolras who looked like the pinnacle of divinity. What artists had been trying to capture for millenia was right in front of Grantaire (the three paintings that he had done since they first met, he saw now, did him no justice). But he played it cool. As cool as he could be, that is.

"Uh, Musichetta, have you finally decided to make the Musain 24 hours?" Grantaire asked, grinning. "Because it's either way past closing or way before opening. Take your pick."

"I couldn't close when I have these dorks working so hard," Musichetta responded, voice high, breathy, and blithe, running a hand through Joly's fluffy hair. "That would be cruel."

"What time is it?" Feuilly asked, scrubbing a hand roughly across his eyes. He looked at his empty wrist and blinked once, as if he had had a watch there and forgotten he'd taken it off.

"Around four," Grantaire responded.

"What are you still doing up?"

"What does it look like?" Grantaire gestured to himself. He was covered in paint, head to toe. He had on his painting clothes, which was really his whole wardrobe if he was honest, but these were the ones he wore if he knew that he would be messy. It was like a history of his last year of art- there was the blue from the time he painted the sea during a road-trip to Cannes with Eponine, the black, white, and grey tones he used to paint in the style of old photographs, a burst of red across his chest, a smudge of purple on his knee, etc. He was certain he had paint on his face.

"I'm sorry," the man who was next to Enjolras said, setting down his pen, adjusting his glasses, and going over to offer a hand to Grantaire. "I don't think we've ever met. I'm Combeferre."

"Grantaire," Grantaire took the proffered hand and shook it. "People call me R." He looked around to all the others he didn't know- An Asian girl with hair dyed blonde and pink ombre who had a gangly red-headed boy asleep on her shoulder and the man whose arm was currently in Jehan's possession. "And that applies to anyone else here that I haven't met. Grantaire, called R. Hello."

The girl gave a small wave, smiling, and softly said "Nice to meet you. I'm Cosette, and this is Marius."

Grantaire recognized the names from Eponine, and was happy to fit names with faces. Cosette was Eponine's best friend, and Marius was her unrequited love. Grantaire wasn't certain that this sleeping ginger was worthy of Eponine's affections, but now he could at least see why Eponine couldn't blame Marius for loving Cosette, and why she sometimes said that she was even a little in love with Cosette as well- she looked like a literal princess. That opinion was only solidified when her smile bloomed wider at Grantaire saying "Oh, you know Eponine."

"I think we've met actually R," The human canvas said, squinting at Grantaire. "Jehan's poetry slam a few weeks back?"

So _that_ was why he had looked familiar. "Oh yeah! Nice to see you again, man." And then he turned his eyes on Enjolras, who was looking at him with an undecipherable expression on his face. Somehow Grantaire was able to form words. "And Enjolras, long time no see. Must we always meet in the wee hours?"

Enjolras smiled (and it was incredible) and inclined his head in Grantaire's direction.

"Grantaire! We're getting nothing done because we all agree," Jehan exclaimed. _This doest not bode well,_ Grantaire thought, still unable to tear his eyes away from Enjolras as a small frown creased his features. 

 "I don't think that's quite why-" Enjolras tried to protest, but was cut off.

 "How about you participate? Let Enjolras talk to you about this policy we're going to protest."

 _Time to go._ Grantaire started backing up toward the door. "Actually I'm pretty tired, so I should really go," he lied. He was not about to break his successful streak of avoiding coming to these meetings. He still didn't understand why his friends would even want him there. Suddenly he was stopped in his tracks by a very solid barrier, and looked up and back to see Bahorel looking down at him. Grantaire looked at him with what he hoped was a "please" in his eyes. Bahorel shook his head. Grantaire heaved a mammoth sigh and forced his eyes back to Enjolras'. 

 "Okay. Hit me."

And what happened next was a whirlwind. Enjolras spoke with passion, Grantaire with none. He was ready with rebuttals to anything Enjolras said, and Enjolras was quick to fire back. Occasionally, their more sophisticated verbal sparring turned to just Grantaire antagonizing Enjolras with his nonchalant tones and cynicism. 

"You don't understand-"

"No, I understand perfectly, I just don't believe you.  _Convince me."_

"Why are you siding with the people who hate everything we believe in?" 

"I'm not siding with them, I'm just playing their side. Devil's Advocate is my middle name." 

Grantaire watched the heat rise in Enjolras' cheeks. He didn't know it could be this wonderful to look at someone who was furious at him. The way the red settled high on his cheekbones, beside being positively obscene, painting a stripe across them that Grantaire thought looked like war paint. It was apt, he decided, for this man who seemed ready for a fierce battle. By the end of it, he was almost panting. Grantaire could feel himself grinning like a madman, and couldn't bring himself to stop. They stared at each other, disregarding the fact that Grantaire could feel the eyes of everyone in the room on them. 

"We meet on Fridays," was all that Enjolras said before Grantaire was pulled away by an ecstatic Jehan. 

Somehow, it seemed his boycott of the meetings was over. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Thank you so so much for all the wonderful comments, they mean so much. I was going to try and have this chapter up by Valentine's Day, but alas, I had homework and a job interview. Real life is a thing. But here it is!  
> If you were wondering about my headcanons for the appearances of Les Amis, check out batcii's art on tumblr- she hit the nail on the head. Just make Enjolras' hair a bit longer- he keeps meaning to get a haircut but never gets around to it because "there are more important issues than my hair, Courf."  
> Notice how I skillfully avoid actually saying the issues they're discussing? It's because I'm a piece of shit that doesn't have time to research relevant issues in France that they'd be protesting. Sorry.


	6. Afternoon Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An afternoon with Enjolras, Courfeyrac, and Combeferre: The Triumvirate. Enjolras has something (or someone) on his mind.

Three young men sat clustered on a park bench in the weak afternoon sun, each in varying degrees of cold-weather gear. Enjolras, who doesn't really mind the cold, was in a sensible red peacoat with his nose turning red to match. Courfeyrac, who hates the cold, was bundled in a coat, scarf, gloves, and was huddling very close to Combeferre. Combeferre was basically a furnace, radiating heat to everyone he came across. To him, the late November day was just a bit brisk, and he had on only a thicker sweater than normal over his button up. Courfeyrac had been loudly exclaiming at the ridiculousness of this for last twenty minutes, as Enjolras scribbled in a notebook and Combeferre tapped away at his laptop. 

The three had been doing their homework on this park bench together since collège, best friends since the very beginning. Algebra and geography assignments had given way to philosophy, politics, literature, all of their university courses and what they really wanted to do with themselves. But the arrangement of Courfeyrac on the left, Enjolras on the right, and Combeferre in the middle, had stayed constant in the changing of time. 

"Honestly, 'Ferre, since I love you, I INSIST you put on a coat." Courfeyrac crowed. 

"Courf, shouldn't you be working on something? A final paper, perhaps?" Enjolras asked, not lifting his eyes from his paper, though he had lost concentration a while back. 

"It's too cold to do anything requiring my fingers moving with any sort of dexterity, thank you very much." Courfeyrac said defensively, leaning over Combeferre (eliciting a "hey!" as he had to scramble to keep his laptop from falling) and peering at what Enjolras was writing. "Besides, you've been writing the same sentence for at least half a page now. So I'm not sure if that counts as working." 

Enjolras blinked down at his paper. Oh. He had been writing the exact same thing, for what appeared to be more like 3/4 of the page. He sighed and recapped his pen, stretching his fingers out and feeling as the pinpricks ran up and down them. He felt Combeferre shut his laptop beside him, and knew his friend was pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. 

"Is something bothering you? You've been kind of quiet all day." Combeferre asked. 

Enjolras didn't meet his eyes. Truthfully, there had been one bother that had been sticking around to become a sort of perpetual bother. A thorn in Enjolras' side that started out as a small thorn, but had grown into a very large, very prominent thorn. 

That thorn was Grantaire. 

Grantaire was so smart, he was _so smart_ , but he had this attitude about him that made it seem like he didn't want to be. Or that he didn't want anyone to know that he was. All of his ideas were amazing, all his arguments sound, but he said them with this sort of lazy drawl that drove Enjolras to literal distraction. And more than that, more than the way he annoyed Enjolras at meetings, was the way he avoided him after. Whenever Les Amis hung out, which was often because, hello, best friends, Grantaire somehow always managed to avoid talking directly to Enjolras. It was like Grantaire didn't like him, which bothered Enjolras more than he could say. Just because he loved to argue with him, he hated to argue with him, and wanted very much to get to know Grantaire as something other than an antagonist. But Grantaire didn't seem to want to get to know him. 

Plus, Grantaire had these eyes. Incredible, incredible eyes that stood out so bright from above the impossibly dark circles that were always underneath them. They shone like new euros, or something even shinier, Enjolras was shit at similes and metaphors and the like. They weren't needed so much in political speeches. But for some reason he wanted to apply them to Grantaire. Grantaire deserved poetry, like the kind Jehan wrote-

Um.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac were still waiting for a response. Instead, Enjolras stood up, gathered his bag, muttered "See you at the meeting," and left. The two watched as he stalked across the park, before Combeferre sighed and reopened his laptop while Courfeyrac tutted and resumed his perch leaching heat from Combeferre. 

"What are we going to do with him, 'Ferre?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo, boy. I am so sorry everyone, if you're still reading this. I got the stomach flu, then a job, and then I forgot all about my little fic here. But, I'm going to finish it very fast now, I swear. To make it up to you all.  
> Collège is junior high in France! Fun fact that you all probably know already.


	7. Third Dawn- Grantaire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something Les Amis (and Grantaire very much) love to do: Party.

There was something about snow that made everything hush, even early snow that couldn't really be properly called snow. Just a few flakes spiraled down, but it was as if the whole of Paris had said "Shh" to each other so that they could better appreciate it. That is, except for one particular cafe. The party had begun at around ten that night, Musichetta having allowed Les Amis to commandeer the entire Musain for the night. It was now almost dawn. Music and light spilled out onto the otherwise dark and silent streets from the windows, silhouetting the thirteen positively knackered young adults inside. Some were doing something that passed as dancing, some were unsteadily standing about, and the smartest of the bunch were sitting down. 

Grantaire thanked the powers that be, otherwise known as Enjolras and Combeferre, for thinking that their rally that weekend deserved a party. Because this? This was a good fucking party. He often got drunk, but it wasn't often that he was this happy while drunk. It wasn't often that he was this happy, period. 

Courfeyrac had somehow gotten Taylor Swift playing, and he, Jehan, Grantaire, and Musichetta were all very badly singing along. Jehan and Grantaire didn't really know the words, but that made it even better to sing along to. They kept making up new ones as soon as they realized the vague tune. They had turned it into a song about martinis and James Bond. Courfeyrac was positively slaying it, really putting his entire smashed heart and soul into it. It was as if he was good ol' T-Swift, albeit shorter and browner and French. A drink in Grantaire's hand, one of many to have been consumed that night, was nearly gone, and Bousset, swinging by with Joly in an awkward waltz, plucked it out of his hands and finished it in one gulp. 

As Joly and Bousset spun by out of Grantaire's line of sight, Enjolras and Combeferre at the bar stools came into it. Grantaire stilled. 

The only sign to indicate that Enjolras was drunk was the blush high up on his cheekbones, just like the one that he got during one of their arguments. 

God, he was pretty. Grantaire literally could not believe how pretty Enjolras truly was. Every time he looked away he sort of convinced himself that his mind was exaggerating his beauty, but then whenever he saw him, he was ten times more beautiful than in Grantaire's memory. And it didn't fade with knowing him, either, not that Grantaire knew Enjolras really. He knew Enjolras's character, his passion and dedication and loyalty to his friends. Grantaire also knew that Enjolras had a sense of humor based in dry wit, but once Grantaire had seen him truly laugh at a horrible pun that Combeferre had made. 

It hurt that they weren't really friends. But Grantaire knew, he _knew_ , that Enjolras just kept him around to argue with. Grantaire was nothing more than a spring-board to bounce ideas off of and get opposition from. And he was willing to bet that Enjolras might be a bit creeped out if he knew the amount of paintings Grantaire had made of him. They just weren't supposed to get along. 

But god, how he'd like to. He'd like to do more than just get along with him. 

Grantaire shook himself mentally, and apparently also shook himself physically, because his curls were suddenly flopping into his mouth and and he had to spit them out with a "pffft" sound that only served to make him laugh, getting his curls all shaken up and back in his mouth again. The cycle repeated itself, and eventually he ended up flat on his butt, still laughing. He could see the floorboards swimming through his watering eyes, the wood grain swirling in a psychedelic pattern. He reached out his hands, intending to touch it, and then other hands were grabbing them and hauling him up. 

Grantaire was staring at Enjolras. It took a minute to process. He blinked the laughter tears from his eyes. 

Enjolras had just helped Grantaire up off the floor, where he had fallen. Enjolras had just walked over from his stool, a good ten feet, and helped Grantaire up off the floor. There had been other people closer, like Jehan and Courf not three feet away, and yet. And yet. Enjolras had walked over and helped Grantaire up. 

They stared at each other, and eventually the sounds of the party began to filter back in. The clinking of glasses on tables, feet stamping in bad rhythm, loud drunk voices, and Taylor Swift telling all of them that she shakes it off. 

"Uhh..." Grantaire furrowed his brow, trying to form words. Enjolras dropped his hand abruptly. Grantaire hadn't realized he was still holding it. "Hey, Enjolras..." 

Enjolras' blush deepened. And before Grantaire could stop himself, he was continuing that sentence. 

"Hey Enjolras, why aren't we friends?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, two chapters in one night! I'm trying very hard to make my absence up to you all.


	8. Third Dawn- Enjolras

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party, from Enjolras' side.

It had been a good night. 

Everyone was happy. More than that, everyone was safe. There had been more than their fair share of violent ends to rallies and protests, with their ragtag team in jail cells or hospital rooms, or the makeshift hospital room in Joly's apartment where he patched everyone up. 

But there was none of that this time. Enjolras sat with Combeferre on the bar stools of the Musain, the heat in his cheeks telling him that he had definitely gotten at least to tipsy. Probably past that, in fact. Bahorel was always very fond of telling Enjolras about what a lightweight he was. One night, during their fist year of university, they had all gone out to karaoke night. Enjolras had about 2 drinks, then was gone enough to actually embarrass himself singing very loudly and badly to "Don't Go Breaking My Heart" with Courfeyrac. Feuilly had it taped on his cell phone to this day. 

Thankfully, he felt no urge to go over and join Courfeyrac in singing Taylor Swift, which was what he was doing with much gusto over on the other side of the room. Musichetta, Jehan, and Grantaire were all over there with him, so he had no lack of company. Jehan and Grantaire seemed to have no idea what the words were, and were making up their own from the sound of it. Enjolras laughed. 

It really had been a good night. It was almost over, or it should be, as it had to be coming on dawn by now. They had walked there what seemed like ages ago at around ten, with the sparse snowflakes falling around them. They were giddy with success, having had a good turnout and good feedback. Combeferre had given him a full rundown afterwards. 

Combeferre was much quieter now, he always got pretty quiet when drunk. Or, he was quiet mostly and then was loud in short bursts. Those bursts usually came when he thought of a pun that was particularly good, or particularly bad, depending on how you felt about puns. He currently sat staring into his drink, rather seriously. Enjolras nudged him with his shoulder. 

"Do you want another one?" Enjolras asked. Combeferre turned his head, glasses slowly sliding down his nose as he leveled his gaze at Enjolras. 

"Enjolras, my friend, these drinks are like eggs." 

"Uhhh...what?" That made no sense even by drunk guy logic. 

"Because..." Combeferre raised his volume. "Un œuf is enough!" 

Enjolras let his face fall into his hands and groaned as Combeferre giggled. 

Grantaire once again caught Enjolras' eye, as he saw him laughing, curls going absolutely wild. It was kind of like the night they'd met. It was about the same time, and Grantaire was happily, unsteadily drunk. It wasn't like Enjolras hadn't seen Grantaire drunk since that night, he was drunk often, but it wasn't as often he was this happy while drunk. Or at least not around Enjolras, despite Enjolras's best efforts. He always tried to get Grantaire alone, but either he had slipped away before Enjolras was done clearing up the meeting, or was occupied with one of the other Les Amis. Enjolras had actively pursued him through their annual Halloween party, but Grantaire was always one step ahead, dancing away in a way that almost felt like he wasn't evading Enjolras. And maybe he wasn't, Enjolras couldn't read his mind, but Enjolras couldn't help but feel like he was. It wasn't like Enjolras couldn't feel Grantaire's eyes on him sometimes, so he didn't know why he always went to such lengths to get away from him. 

Grantaire was suddenly on the floor, feet falling out from under him. Enjolras hopped off his stool in a flash, and as Grantaire's hands came up to move his hair out of his eyes, Enjolras grabbed them and hauled him up. 

Their eyes met, and it really was like the night they met now. Somehow unable to tear their eyes from one another's as their hands were joined. 

"Hey Enjolras..." Grantaire slurred. Enjolras started to pull away, but the end of the sentence made him freeze. "Hey Enjolras, why aren't we friends?" 

That's fine, Grantaire, it wasn't like Enjolras hadn't been asking himself the same question for the last month and half or anything. 

"Well, we are." Enjolras said, weakly, though he knew he wasn't being truthful. His mind screamed that his mouth was betraying him. 

"Are we?" Grantaire responded. 

"You avoid me!" Enjolras burst out, after a second, feeling the heat in his cheeks even more now. Alcohol mixing with his frustration in a red-hot combination, even more intoxicating than whatever he had been drinking before. It was like when they argued at meetings, but this was personal. Grantaire's bright eyes narrowed as well.

"No I-" he started, then seemingly thought better of it. "Yes! Yes I do!" 

"Why?!" 

"You hate me!" 

Well, that couldn't be further from the truth. 

"No, I don't! Why would you think that?" 

Dimly, Enjolras was aware that everyone else had fallen silent. Only Taylor Swift continued on in the background. 

"We're always arguing!" 

"That's literally the point of debate!" 

Grantaire stared at him, chest heaving. Enjolras waited for his next retort, but Grantaire seemed, for once, a bit lost for words. Finally, he stammered out, quieter now, "I-I, you would hate me." 

"How do you know that if you never give me a chance to get to know you?" Enjolras asked, lowering his voice as well. 

"I think," Grantaire said thickly, "I think I need to go." 

He turned on his heel, wobbling a bit, and walked out the door without even grabbing his coat. Enjolras watched as Eponine snatched it off the coatrack and ran after him, and kept watching until the two of them rounded a corner and vanished into the snowy, silent night. He felt Courfeyrac tugging at his shoulder, asking something that sounded like "are you okay?" and listened to him and Cosette murmuring low, and then Cosette also left, tugging Marius along with her, presumably to go after her best friend and Grantaire. Eventually he let Joly put his coat around his shoulders, and snapped himself out of it to walk home with Jehan and trudge up the stairs to his apartment. 

He fell asleep staring at the window that Grantaire first crashed into his life through, now closed against the cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These guys are idiots, right? Don't worry, this will all be resolved in the next chapter. Which will probably be posted tomorrow, because I want this to be done so I can start a new fic (if you're interested in the webcomic Check Please!, that's what fandom it'll be...if you don't know what it is, you should check it out!)   
> Also, I know that Combeferre wouldn't necessarily make that joke since it only really works with "enough" in English, but I already told you I'm a piece of shit, right? Multiple times. So that still stands.   
> Thank you for sticking around everyone, it means a lot :)


	9. Night Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A night that fixes everything, save a few bones.

Since their rally last week had gone so well, though soured slightly by the ending of the party afterward, the universe evidently felt the need to balance that out with a rally that went _spectacularly_ poorly. They had barely started when the cops showed up, and they got violent, and now Grantaire's head was throbbing with a wet trickle matting his hair to his head. And they were in a jail cell. 

All of them. Packed in like a can of sardines. 

Grantaire looked around at them all, most sporting some sort of cut or bruise. They looked either a) in pain, b) enraged, and c) very sad. Cosette was the only one who looked reasonably contented, probably because her dad was on his way to come get them out of this mess. Marius looked terrified at the prospect. 

The first time that Monsieur Valjean had come to get them out, Grantaire had been stunned at the familiarity he had with the police chief, Inspector Javert. He had walked in, clapped the growling Javert on the shoulder and greeted him with a shit-eating grin on his face as he asked to be led to his daughter and her friends. From what Grantaire had learned since then, Valjean had once been in prison but had turned his life around and gotten very rich. Grantaire did remember, though, how he had put his arms around Cosette's shoulders and looked at her proudly as she walked out of the cell. 

God, Grantaire's head really hurt.

Joly was sat next to him, rifling through the first aid kit he had on hand at all times. He felt Joly's steady hands on his head then, moving his curls around and eliciting a sharp hiss of pain. Grantaire tried to move away from him, but only succeeded in knocking into the person on his left, who, he just realized, was Enjolras. 

"Grantaire, don't move," Joly reprimanded. "This is hard enough to see without all your hair. It would be a lot easier if you were bald like Bousset." 

"Hey!" 

"Oh hush, you know I love it." 

"Here," Enjolras said. "I'll hold him still." 

And Grantaire's already battered brain short circuited as Enjolras' hands steadied his head with a firm pressure on either side.

In the week since their fight, Grantaire had been avoiding Enjolras even more than usual. Now, here he was packed into a jail cell with him holding onto his possibly-concussed self. After that night, Grantaire had gone home, Eponine and Cosette (and Marius) following soon after, to make soothing noises and pet his hair as he cried. Though Enjolras, as far as he knew, hadn't been acting any more negatively towards him, Grantaire knew that everything must not be alright on his end either. Maybe Enjolras was simply okay because he knew he was in the right, as usual. Grantaire did avoid him, because he was afraid that Enjolras wouldn't like him if he knew him. And Grantaire didn't think he could take knowing for sure what he already figured. 

He let out another hiss as Joly's fingers prodded a sore spot, and Enjolras' eyes narrowed in concern. 

"Are you okay?" 

"No," Grantaire replied, not really talking about his head, and willing Enjolras to see that. Enjolras didn't break eye contact, and neither did Grantaire. Enjolras took a breath in, and opened his mouth to speak, when 

"I don't think you'll need stitches. I'll just disinfect this cut and then we can do a concussion test later." Joly interrupted, and Grantaire cursed him. Enjolras closed his mouth, and continued just looking at Grantaire. The stinging of antiseptic sent Grantaire jerking away from Joly with a loud curse, and he didn't even register that "away from Joly" was also "towards Enjolras", or that Enjolras still had his hands on Grantaire's head, until Enjolras pulled him the rest of the way towards him and brought their lips together. 

Grantaire saw stars. And angels, trumpeting angels on clouds in heaven. But most of all, he saw Enjolras. The abruptness and shock meant he didn't even think to close his eyes, and as such saw Enjolras in minute detail. And he was every bit as glorious from that view, and an extremely glorious kisser. He would think that this was a dream, or a hallucination, but he knew his dreams could not make up something this divinely wonderful. Kissing Enjolras. He was kissing Enjolras. Well, he reminded himself, Enjolras was kissing him. He was merely the kiss-ee, not the kisser, but he was most certainly kissing back. With every fiber of his being, he was kissing back. 

"Do you get it now?" Enjolras asked, pulling away and leaning their foreheads together. "I would really, really love to get to know you Grantaire." 

"I think I do, yes," Grantaire replied, then went in for another kiss. 

Cheers went up around them, along with some exclamations of "Oh thank god" and "finally". And then, the screeching of the door sliding open and Valjean's voice saying "Well this was certainly not what I did in prison."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lied. I'm posting it tonight.  
> Thank you all for sticking with me, and as always, please leave feedback for me. It means the world.


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